Lord Scandal (6 page)

Life in Town seems rather flat just now, what with all the choicest object of scandal gathered together at a certain earl's house. Oh, to be among those privileged with an invitation.

Tête-à-Tête, 19 August 1789

Imogen covered her face with a large paper cone as her maid began to powder her hair. She held her breath, trying not to choke as the air filled with pale blue powder. When the job was done she stripped off the dressing gown and studied herself in the mirror. Her gown left a huge portion of her chest and shoulders exposed. Moiré silk spread wide across hoops, paste jewels sparkled on the gown's stomacher and winked in her hair.

She looked every inch the elegant ton matron that she should have been. The gown was conspicuous, flamboyant. A heady sense of power pulsed through her. When combined with the tingling state of awareness that Gabriel had engendered in her over the past few days, it made the whole night seem unreal.

Like a play with the footlights casting a glow all about her.

She was still contemplating herself in the mirror when there was a knock at the door and Helen Perripoint burst in.

“Don't you dare change,” Helen said, circling around to get the full effect of Imogen's toilette. “That gown is perfect, and I won't let you talk yourself out of wearing it. Come to my room and help me with my hair, I can't seem to do a thing with it tonight.”

Helen dragged her out of her room, chattering all the while about how difficult her hair was being, and by the time the two of them had achieved something they both found satisfactory, Nancy had come bustling in with Imogen's gloves in hand to announce that there were gentlemen waiting in the parlor to escort them up to the house. Imogen looked quizzically at Helen, who shrugged as she pulled on her own gloves.

She had yet to work up the courage to ask her friend for advice about how to make her desires clear to Gabriel. It was one thing to think about asking for advice, but it was hard to put the question into words. Every time she opened her mouth to do so her brain simply went blank.

Down in the parlor they found St. Audley and Carr, both elegantly attired in lavishly embroidered
habits à la française,
the curled wigs on their heads shedding bits of powder onto their coats. “Lady Somercote sent us down for you,” St. Audley announced with a bow, offering his arm to Imogen.

“With instructions to retrieve you post haste,” Carr added, taking Helen's hand and leading her off. “The musicians have already struck up, and there are too many gentlemen drifting about unable to find a partner. It looks more like a meeting at Tattersalls than a ball.”

 

Gabriel wove his way through the crowd in Barton Court's enormous ballroom, impatient for a glimpse of Imogen. He leaned back against the wall and looked out over the room. Not being able to locate her in the throng was becoming irksome.

The party would break up after tonight. Everyone would return to their estates, to London, to Bath, to Brighton, or to wherever else they chose to spend the summer months.

Who knew when he would encounter his nymph again. The likelihood of them being thrown together in the near future was dim, and the prospect of leaving things as they stood was unappealing at best. Damn it all, he wanted her. And she'd given every indication that she was receptive. But first he had to find her…

George had outdone herself. Candles blazed in the chandeliers overhead, the light glinted off a fortune in diamonds and paste. Half the ton had descended upon them the preceding day, and the other half appeared to have arrived tonight. The room overflowed: guests spilling out into the top two terraces of the garden which had been lit throughout with lanterns. The first story gallery, running all the way around the edge of the ballroom, was crammed with elderly matrons. Women who were content to wander about and gaze down at the dancers, or to sit and gossip about the other guests.

The dance floor was a sea of couples, each moving in the stately, precise steps of the minuet. As the music washed over the room, filled it, and spilled out into the night, pairs formed, altered, broke apart and reconverged. George was dancing with his cousin Julian. As she turned into the next figure he spied Imogen, partnered by St. Audley.

He had her for the supper dance, but it rankled that she was so patently enjoying another man's company, even if that man was one of his best friends. With a grumble of disgust he took himself off to the billiard room. The supper dance wasn't for hours yet, and if he simply stood and watched her dance all evening, he'd drive himself mad, and likely cause just the sort of scandal George had warned him to avoid.

 

The first notes floated out across the assembled dancers, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Gabriel turned to face Imogen, claimed her right hand with his, and led her to their place in the queue. Her breathing gave a little hitch, and he sternly repressed a tell-tale smile.

They made it halfway through the complicated steps of the minuet in total silence. Gabriel leaned in as they turned, artfully circling one another.

“You're awfully quiet.”

Imogen laughed, glancing up to meet his eyes, a bit of blue powder catching the light, liming her hair.

“Just enjoying the dance.” She slid past him, shoulder to shoulder, head turning to bare her neck as she held his glance.

She completed the cross-over, turned in place, reached out to take his hand for the next figure. Gabriel pulled her towards him, overtly aware of the play of bones in her hand as she gripped his hand in return and allowed him to steer her to the next place in line.

They exchanged places again, opposite shoulders brushing ever so slightly as they passed. The silk of her gown clinging to that of his suit. Couples swirled past, crossed over, changed places, circled through a hay. Gabriel moved by rote, by memory. His attention entirely on his partner. The dance more hunt than seduction, more an overt expression of passion than it should have been. When the dance was over, the soft whine of the violins washing over the room as the musicians slid the bows away from the strings, he led her off the floor, steering her towards the doors to the already crowded terrace.

“Hungry?” Angelstone inquired, looking down at her, mischief clearly sparking in his eyes.

“No, just thirsty.” Imogen fanned herself, flushed and nearly panting. What was he thinking? He looked perfectly bored if one missed those eyes, the upturned corners lending him an even more devilish air. “And glad to be out in the air a bit,” she added, taking a deep breath of the cool night air. She hadn't realized just how warm it was in the ballroom until they'd stepped outside. The sweat on her face and chest dried almost instantly, leaving her skin tight and tingling.

“Then might I suggest,” he said, plucking two glasses of champagne from a passing footman and handing one to her with a grace that made her long to touch him, “that we skip supper, and instead commandeer a quiet corner? You've been dancing for hours, and you've hours more to go.”

Resting for the supper hour was quite obviously the last thing Gabriel actually intended to do. If she really wanted to find out what it was like to take a lover, this was her opportunity. And he was leaving the decision up to her. He was suggesting, offering, but not demanding. To decline all she had to do was say she was hungry after all, and he'd tamely accompany her to supper, where they would be safely chaperoned.

She took a sip of champagne, gazing up at him, pretending she was considering her answer carefully. She'd known from the moment she'd said she wasn't hungry what her answer would be.

“I think a quiet hour would be absolutely divine,” she replied softly, with what she hoped was a seductive smile. “Perhaps we could escape the crowd by heading down towards the maze?”

Angelstone quirked a brow, his smile almost mocking, but he allowed her to lead him off down the steps and into the garden, where many like-minded couples were strolling about, drinking and flirting. Imogen glanced over her shoulder as they slipped past a couple half-hidden inside an alcove of jasmine. The supper room must be wall to wall gentlemen, so many of the ladies being otherwise occupied at the moment. She smiled and hurried her steps, trying to match her stride to Angelstone's. As they passed the dowager house he paused.

“Do you think, perhaps…”

“My maid will be waiting up for Helen and me, and the children have all been moved there for the night.” She smiled sadly at the rueful expression on his face. She felt the tug of disappointment herself. Resolute, she wrapped both hands about his upper arm and pulled him along into the darkened paths of the lowest terrace.

The maze was lit with lanterns, splashes of red and yellow light bobbing in the breeze like giant fireflies. So nervous she could barely breathe, Imogen led him quickly through the maze to the courtyard where she'd first encountered him.

She strained her eyes and ears. Was there anyone else playing in the maze? Not so much as a hushed giggle came back to her. The only sounds were the bubbling of the fountain, the crunch of their shoes on the gravel, the sweet, lonesome song of a nightingale.

“If a truly private assignation is denied us, let us take full advantage of this secluded spot,” he scooped her up and carried her over to one of the stone benches that surrounded the fountain. Imogen gave a little squeal of surprise when her feet left the ground, but she didn't protest. Soon he'd be gone, and her pleasant life at Barton Court was likely to seem rather flat in the ensuing weeks.

Angelstone lowered them both onto the bench, Imogen balanced in his lap.

“We're going to have to do what we can without destroying the pearly façade you've worn tonight.”

He sounded pleased with the prospect. Amused even. One hand at her waist, fingers splayed over her ribs, he tugged the glove from his free hand with his teeth. He slid her round so that her hips were wedged between his thighs, her back to his chest.

“Wha—”

“Hush.” His gloved hand held her to him, his erection evident where it pressed against her. His naked hand slid into her bodice, lifted one breast free. He glanced down. “Of all the nights not to have a full moon,” he complained, tipping her back and to one side, lowering his head to take the peaked nipple into his mouth.

Imogen froze. Her breath hitched strangely. Her nipples had tightened as soon as he'd touched her, and now her breasts felt full and hard. He bit down lightly, flicking his tongue over the tight peak of her nipple. She bucked in his lap, causing him to chuckle.

She could easily make out the glint of his smile. He looked like some wicked demon lover half-hidden in shadows. The way he was touching her only added to the illusion. He took her nipple back between his teeth while his hand slipped down to her ankle, and up under her skirts.

Imogen resisted the urge to squeeze her legs together, to bat his hand away as it slid up over her knee, past her garter, over top of her stocking, onto the bare flesh of her thigh. She swallowed hard and took a deep, panting breath, cold night air nearly drowning her. He released her nipple and blew softly across it, causing it to ruche almost painfully.

He sat her up, her back once more to his chest. His hand moved further up her thigh, the soft scrape of the whorls of his fingertips electric. She couldn't seem to get enough air, couldn't think straight. The slightly roughed texture of his cheek against hers was exciting in ways she'd entirely forgotten.

His thumb caressed the tendon that joined her thigh to her body, fingers slipped past the curls at the apex of her thighs caressing, probing, seeking.

His gloved hand curled around her knee, lifted her leg so that it hooked over his, opening her to him, opening her to the night and the air. Imogen was past caring. It had been far too long since a man had touched her. And William had certainly never bothered flattering her, seducing her in such a manner.

She'd had no idea what she'd been missing.

He leaned forward, his chin ever so slightly abrasive against her ear, his hand—naked and sinful—between her thighs. “These are the wings, like the wings of an angel. Delicate. Sensitive.” His fingers traced the slick inner folds of flesh. “And here,” his palm rested on her mons, one finger touching the sensitive bud normally hidden between her thighs, “is what the Greeks call the little hill, but I prefer Aristotle's name for it,” he pressed down, rubbing, teasing, “the throne of lust.”

Imogen gasped and arched, embarrassed to be responding like a cat in heat, to be pressing her hips forward, rocking in harmony to the rhythm he established.

His tongue traced the curve of her ear. “Do you think anyone else might find their way into the maze?”

Imogen froze, but his fingers continued their dance, sliding down to swirl about the entrance to her body, gliding back up, wet and slick to reclaim their place upon her throne.

“The maze is lit, the true path is red, false ways yellow. Did you notice.”

She hadn't…

One finger slid into her. Her body clenched around it, hollow and wanting. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, from begging him to take her back up to the dowager house. Her maid and children be damned.

“Anyone could stumble in. Find us here. Your legs spread. My hands where they shouldn't be. My fingers inside you.”

He slid a second finger in with the first, curving them to press against a spot she hadn't even known existed. He worked them deeper, his thumb finding its way back to the throne.

The sound of her panting was loud in her own ears. She shuddered, so close to climax her fingers and toes had gone numb. Nothing existed except his hand between her thighs, his chin against her ear. The tight feeling building low in her belly, her womb twitching like a butterfly in a net.

She leaned back, hands gripping his thighs for leverage, silk slipping under kidskin, muscles hard as the marble bench beneath them. His straining erection pressed to her bottom. God how she wanted to turn, open the fall of his breeches and take him inside her. On the verge of climax she desperately wanted him to be inside her when she found it. This was wicked. Dangerous. Perfect. His mouth, hot and wet pressed an open kiss to the tender spot just below her ear. She mumbled his name, gripped his thighs harder, fingers digging in as she tried not to scream.